


Apostasy

by lifeinwords



Category: The OC
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeinwords/pseuds/lifeinwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A general falling-away from truth. Season One, takes place after The Shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apostasy

You chew on your lip and try to unclench your hands. The steering wheel is sticky and uncomfortable, and a quick flex brings the feeling back to your fingers, pins and needles, but your teeth won’t stop worrying away at that one chunk of flesh. It only works on the left side of your mouth for some reason. And it had been months, at least, since you’d last woken up in the morning with blood on your chin. But the groove is still there, fitting neatly in a thick lump between your teeth, and the pressure is soothing. Bear down, suction and tongue strokes back and forth, let go. Repeat. It’s starting to swell already.

 

Thank god for the afternoon downtime. The freeway is unbelievably clear, and you guess maybe everyone in Newport is already at the Cohen’s, drinking some high-class alcohol and sneaking away to fuck the caterers or the valets. Maybe in the poolhouse, because you couldn’t ever remember to lock it.

 

You turn off the radio and roll the window down halfway. You light a cigarette. Marissa keeps a pack in the glove compartment, because sometimes she smokes when she’s drunk. You try not to speed.

 

The worst thing about Newport is everyone thinks they understand. Maybe almost no one thinks that, really, Dr. Kim and Seth and Kirsten and Sandy. Yeah, that’s about it. But they nod and call you a promising young man, even if it's only Seth, mocking you over dinner with a list of suitable extracurriculars. It’s like _Invisible Man_.

 

You’d been shit-scared to open your mouth in English for a month, some kind of Advanced Placement thing. The teacher wore deck shoes and preached about the classics, having respect for _great literature_. But then they read this book, this fucked-up book about a guy who escaped from the world that screwed him over and lived in a hole, a book you stayed up all night to finish, and everyone in class had said things like ‘his suffering is tragic,’ and ‘I understand his motivations, but why is he so _angry_ ,’ and ‘the immediacy of Ellison’s prose.’

 

You had waited until it was obvious the teacher was really going to call on everyone, sooner or later, and browsed through Cliffs Notes to talk about The Modern Black Experience. You didn’t say that the title was the fucking point: the guy was invisible. People saw Black, or they pretended not to see it and didn’t see anything at all, or they saw themselves seeing a Person, how good of them.

 

The last one was the worst. You could handle Julie Cooper glancing at her purse every time you were in the room, you could even handle Seth or Marissa assuming they'd be forgiven when they screwed up.

 

You wanted to smash things every time someone said they were proud of you. You were brave, you were promising, you were a _survivor_.

 

The gas gauge blinks red at you, and thank god there’s an exit in five miles. You turn off your cell phone once you’re parked, toss it in the backseat. The pump is heavy and hot, and the girl at the counter leans forward until you can smell her gum, asks if you want anything else. You think about it for a second, her tits in your face and the stink of semen filling the car, just fucking relaxing. She looks disappointed when you drop a crumpled ten next to your coffee and walk out.

 

Like you’d made a fucking choice, or something. You’d just been sitting patiently, suffering in silence until Sandy drove up in his shiny car and took you away from all that. Maybe Sandy gets it. He came from nothing, no dad, mom at work, fighting in the streets. Fighting for justice.

 

Hell, maybe Seth would make you both masks and you could hit the streets at night, putting drunk girls to bed and giving broke friends a second chance.

 

But the Invisible Man is always going to be stuck in that underground darkness. He's just gonna wait and wait, think every new day might be the one when he leaves. Because no one really sees that once you get out, once they're watching, you don't get to say who you are anymore.

 

You’ve got to give all that up when you join the soccer team and play video games and pretend you’ll ever be trustworthy. You have to forget that it’s all on loan, that the lights could go out any second. Instead you play nice, make friends, be whatever they want. Rebel with a heart of gold? Bad kid done good? No problem.

 

And what is so fucked up about you is you try to hang onto who you were. Even when you know better. Marissa rakes her nails down your back, and you shudder because it’s like breaking a lamp when you’re ten, press-ons holding you in place for one quick slap.

 

There’s a hitchhiker holding an ‘Anywhere But Here’ sign at the transition from freeway to highway. He’s about your age, long brown hair and motorcycle boots, and he’s not even looking at the road anymore, just his feet. When you’re out there long enough, you stop smiling for every car.

 

The light is still red, so you switch on the radio and find something loud. Metallica screams that nothing else matters, and it reminds you of Theresa’s basement when you were eleven. She thought James Hetfield was hot, and you decided right then that you’d grow your hair out. The light changes. You remember her face when she couldn’t tell you he’d hurt her before.

 

Fucking Eddie. You’d gotten drunk together a few times, been at the same parties. He’d rolled a joint for you once because your fingers wouldn’t work. His older sister had given you your first blow job afterward, and even though it had been over in about ten seconds, it has never been as good as that time. You don’t know why you’re thinking about this.

 

Fucking Theresa. Who had a mom at home and an older brother just barely smart enough not to get caught, and still. You’d promised each other not to get pregnant, or get anyone pregnant, to get out of Chino right after graduation and maybe you’d work in a garage fixing cars and she would wait tables and take classes at night. You'd never get drunk and she'd never yell.

 

Every time Sandy raises his voice, even if it’s not at you, something chokes and freezes inside. You start looking for exits, looking for weapons, thinking how much money do I have and where are the keys and maybe if I’m very still nothing will happen.

 

You pull over in front of an organic fruit stand and grind your knuckles into your eye sockets until stars fill the blackness. You don’t want to go in her house again, ask her mother where Eddie is staying, check the bars or the hotels or wherever the fuck he’s holed up. You don’t want to see Theresa’s face when you get back.

 

It’s pretty clear that this is the time you will hit someone and not get away with it. You have to do it anyway. You’re going to hurt Eddie as much as you can, someone will call the cops, and Kirsten will cry in the waiting room while you get stitched up. Sandy will look at you like he looked at your mother when she left. Seth will stay home. Then they’ll leave, and it’ll be like it should’ve been anyway.

 

Because you can’t stop fucking pushing it. Can’t let Theresa get hit, can’t let Marissa get over you, gotta fuck it up until it feels real. Maybe you shouldn’t be dating your step-aunt because you can’t figure out how else to help. Maybe should stop thinking about Theresa pressing you tight between her thighs and shuddering, eyes closed like she could hold you there as long as you didn’t see her wanting it.

 

Trey used to say, 'as long as you’re in the game, play till you can’t make a move.' And it’s almost easy to smile at those parties without gritting your teeth, write your little essays and remember to give evidence for your argument. Sandy and Kirsten like you, and no one brings it up that you were dumped on them. It’s pretty obvious that you’re fucking up here, even though it feels like the right thing. But then, it always does. Maybe this time it’d be better to just—-just do their right thing. Close the book on Chino and adapt, make a move while you still can.

 

You turn the car around at the next exit and light another cigarette.


End file.
